


The Adventure of the Spontaneous Recital

by spotlightonmringenue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief, M/M, Pining, Temporary Character Death, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spotlightonmringenue/pseuds/spotlightonmringenue
Summary: A story about Sherlock when John is believed to be dead, and what might happen if that weren’t true.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating daily. Feedback is appreciated. Enjoy.

Greg gets there first, recognizing the jumper and turning away, unable to look any closer. 

After a moment to recover – all he’ll spare - he orders Donovan to keep Sherlock out if the detective appears, even if she has to shoot the man. He calls Mycroft, one shaky hand balling into a fist as he uses the very last bit of his bearing to make sure his voice doesn’t break.

“Hello, Detective Insp-”

“Find Sherlock. Now.”

“…Doctor Watson?”

“Find him.” Greg hangs up, stuffing the phone into a pocket and squeezing his eyes closed. “Shit.”

Mycroft finds his brother at 221B, the violin playing a sonata created by Eurus. As soon as his foot lands on the top step, a cacophonous sound echoes through the flat. If Mycroft is hearing correctly, that was the sound of a violin falling to the floor and crying out in protest, which means that Sherlock has deduced why he’s here. He opens the door, closing the space between them as Sherlock wavers, falling to his knees in Mycroft grasp without registering his presence. When his brother starts to scream, the older Holmes closes his eyes, unable to cover his ears as he keeps his arms in a vise around Sherlock’s upper half.

Mrs. Hudson’s worried calls can barely be heard over the noise but she finds them fast, sitting across from Mycroft to take Sherlock’s weight, her hand pressed against the side of his head. He folds sideways, collapsing like a broken dam into her lap and screaming himself hoarse with wordless, tortured sounds. His hands clutch onto Mrs. Hudson’s cardigan and Mycroft’s coat, the two adults in his life watching each other with sick understanding. 

They’ve lost John. If they aren’t very, very careful, they’ll lose Sherlock too.

Greg follows the body to Bart’s, his mouth twisting with the force he’s using to keep himself together. Molly’s delighted and surprised smile upon seeing him crushes the professionalism Greg has left and she understands all too quickly, eyes watering before the body arrives. The form under the sheet on the table that’s wheeled in is too short to be Sherlock. 

Molly rushes into her connected office, Greg watching through the glass until she turns away, shoulders shaking. With a resolute breath, she walks back out, her hand settling on the edge of the cloth and lifting it away, air rushing from her like there’s no room in her chest anymore. Greg stays with her, waiting for the report - and for Sherlock to come in with John at his side, teasing them for their tears.

When Greg arrives at 221B, his gut heaves and he swallows it back, heading upstairs. It’s quiet, and he finds Mycroft on the floor with Mrs. Hudson, the latter crying as she cradles the upper half of an unconscious Sherlock. Greg remains standing because he’s not sure he could hold it in if he sits down now. He has a job to do. For John. Scotland Yard’s file is moved to Mycroft’s hand, the older Holmes spending more time than necessary reading it. Greg sees him flip back and forth, clearly trying to comprehend the reality they’ve found themselves in.

“How long?” 

Greg assumes he’s talking about bloodwork, the only piece missing from the report. “Two hours. I asked them to rush it.” Mycroft nods, setting the papers aside and standing up.

“I will take the situation from here.” 

Greg nods, watching Mycroft hesitate at the door. “We’ve got him.”

Molly emails him the bloodwork, telling Greg to call if they need someone to stay with Sherlock at any time. The body is John. 

The inspector is still there as Sherlock wakes up, watching the detective open his eyes easily - as though he had just shut them to think. Mrs. Hudson reluctantly releases the man as he pulls away from her to walk toward the wall of books. Sherlock clears a shelf, setting everything on the floor and pulling the wooden slab free only to turn the shelf around, sliding out a long panel and dumping the contents on the table. Greg frowns as he sees the compression band and several unmarked bags of assorted pills.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson tries. He looks right through them. The man goes to the window, knocking on the side of the pane until he hits hollow, pushing that square back and reaching down into darkness to pull out vials, also unlabeled. They go on the table as well. A ceiling tile above the kitchen table comes down, revealing taped syringes and lighters. 

When that’s brought back, Sherlock grabs a bag nearby and begins shoving everything into it, leaving Greg startled as it’s pushed into his hands. Then the man moves to his violin, picking it up with a soft exhale and pushing the bridge upright from where it popped loose under the strings. He rests it back in the case, closing the lid and sitting down in his chair. The bag feels heavy in Greg’s hands.

“Why?” Sherlock doesn’t answer, taking the inspector’s phone from his coat pocket with no argument from the owner. He’s reading the email from Molly, silent and fast. When he’s done, the device is handed back. “I wasn’t staying because of this,” Greg says, lifting the bag a little as he accepts his phone. “I’m proud of you, though.”

Sherlock still doesn’t answer.

“And I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he gets the man’s eyes up to meet his own. Beyond being a bit pale, the only thing that shows Greg that something is wrong is the way Sherlock is watching him. For once in their relationship, the younger Holmes is not reading him with a look. He’s just staring, as ordinary people do. Greg nods, a little too helplessly as the inside corners of his eyes start to sting. “Truly sorry, Sherlock.”

He hopes it doesn’t take a detective to find the sincerity in his words.

Sherlock Holmes stays at Baker Street all day, every day, moving through the hours by following instructions as he’s given them. When Mrs. Hudson tells him it’s time to eat, he doesn’t blast holes in the wall. He doesn’t play violin over the sound of her voice until she leaves in a huff. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t ignore her, doesn’t even refuse. Sherlock just eats when he’s told he should. They take all their meals together, in his kitchen. He goes to lay in his bed at 10 PM and gets out of it at 6 AM, whether he slept or not. The dark circles suggest not, but Mycroft’s idea of putting cold medicine in his dinner was vetoed and they can’t force him to sleep. 

Another terrifying thing occurs: he doesn’t speak. Mycroft’s bugs only pick up the voices of the small support circle that’s formed around the man, and Sherlock doesn’t destroy the devices if found on accident. The violin gets dusty, its sound never heard on the microphones. He won't even speak to himself, and Mrs. Hudson finds that a high percentage of her day is spent staring at the ceiling and worrying about the quiet.

There’s a funeral. He goes, Mycroft ensuring it’s a media-free event, Greg and Mrs. Hudson standing on either side of him. Harry shows up with Rosie on her hip and the child says Sherlock’s name, reaches for him. He doesn’t move, even as she tugs on the collar of his coat and says his name again. Harry apologizes as she takes Rosamund away. 

He stays at the grave after it ends, freshly turned dirt telling him something - about the source, the soil quality. Right now, it’s just dirt. He crouches, hands pressing into it as though he intends to dig, but a firm grip on his arm stops the fingers from curling. It’s Mycroft, staring at the top of Sherlock’s head as he doesn’t look up. 

“What do you think you’re going to find?” 

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, closing it again as Mrs. Hudson lays a hand on his back. “Rain’s on the way. Let’s get you home.”

So they go. 

Sherlock showers once a day and the regular eating schedule puts some meat on his bones. By all appearances, his lifestyle is healthier. He’s not dying, in any sense of the word, and Mycroft changes the subject when Greg mentions – out of Sherlock's earshot - that it’s probably because he’s already dead.

Mrs. Hudson finds that Sherlock will join her for a walk around London on occasion, and as grateful as she is for the company, she hopes that one day he’ll refuse.

After supposedly far too much silence and blind obedience, Mycroft becomes fed up. 

“Sherlock, honestly - it’s been three months. I know you don’t intend to live the rest of your life like this. A Holmes can do better. You can, you’re not a fool.”

“Aren’t I?” He startles at the voice, watching his brother speak again. “Aren’t I a fool?”

Mycroft corrects him. “It’s ‘Am I not’, Sherlock.” The man’s gaze moves away from the wall and the older Holmes almost steps back. He’s confronted by eyes that tell him Sherlock knew it wasn’t grammatically correct - he just didn’t care. 

Mycroft leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Irene sees the article and flies back to London without a warning text. She steps into Baker Street, finding Sherlock at the counter with a plate of eggs and Mrs. Hudson allows them privacy with a thankful smile. Irene admires that Mrs. Hudson’s not surprised by the arrival – she’s just appreciative that Irene knew to come. The Woman starts talking about a case she heard of a while back, something that involved only Sherlock. It intrigued her then and it does now, wanting to know what was never put in the blog. Irene’s enthusiasm becomes less genuine as time passes and her brilliant detective doesn’t even look up from his food.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, aren’t you going to rattle off the details? I bet you can scrounge up the enthusiasm to tell me all about it, make me think like you did the first time. Would it help if I get undressed again?”

“I don’t think so. Do you?” 

Irene pauses. It’s the first thing he’s said since her arrival and it doesn’t make sense. Then it does, as it has since he beat her at her own game. “Yet here we are.”

Mycroft hears music again at Baker Street and replays the bug recording, just once.

It’s noon. Mrs. Hudson gathers the sheet music as she finds it and the trail ends with a sleeping Sherlock - lying in his own bed and surrounded by papers. Only one has writing beyond the staff, a letter written at the top of the page.

_H._

She’s heard him working on it. She’s also taken to wearing noise-cancelling headphones to bed due to the chosen hours of his practice time. _Not their housekeeper_ , she thinks, setting them in a stack by the window, the titled one on top. _Not his housekeeper._

“Eurus would like to see you. She’s been asking since your first absence at our family meetings.” Sherlock doesn’t answer, playing a song that Mycroft remembers hearing before the Watson wedding. “Is that a yes?” No answer again, nor to the next three questions Mycroft asks.

“For God’s sake, I don’t understand why you’ve gone mute. You used to talk even when he was away, I don’t see the trouble now. Just imagine he’s out for milk.” The violin cuts off as Sherlock turns his face, only enough to stare at the accent wall to their right.

“Do you know the difference between an A-sharp and a B-flat?”

“There isn’t one.” Sherlock lingers, then faces away again, playing the note as though Mycroft doesn't know it already. 

“There is.” That note carries into a familiar original song, the first one he heard when Sherlock picked up the violin, months after the doctor’s funeral. “I’m just the only one who can hear it.” Mycroft takes a resigned breath and watches him play. Imagination is apparently not powerful enough.

Greg has a case. 

It’s an 11, he really thinks it is, because this one is already solved. Greg just felt that something was wrong when it was over and he thinks that this one is going to be big. It feels a bit bad to be so delighted, but when Sherlock hasn’t even glanced at the cases he’s mentioned before, it’s hard not to feel hopeful. Six months of increase in total unsolved cases because they’re missing their greatest asset, for God’s sake. 

He never pushed. 

When Greg arrives, the man is not in the main room but he can hear the violin upstairs, knowing from Mrs. Hudson that it’s wiser to wait down here. Greg does, already off the clock for the day. This is important to him. He’d always promised John- 

Sherlock enters, curling up in his chair and staring at the empty one across from him. Greg holds out the file, begging with that extended arm for it to be accepted. He wants to do something for Sherlock, for John, and this is all he has to give. Please, just take it. The tab of the folder is labeled - the first and last name of the victim so it stays organized in their cabinets. Sherlock’s eyes see it for just a second but it makes him look up at Greg, not saying that they’ve done this one before.

“I think we were wrong. I don’t know how or why, but I think we have the wrong suspect. It might be an 11.”

“The point-” Sherlock stops, like he can’t be bothered. _The point of a scale is to set a range. It can’t be higher than ten, otherwise why bother creating the bloody thing?_

Greg hears the words anyway, gripping the folder hard and keeping his arm out. “It’s an 11,” he says. Sherlock stares at it. Please. When the weight is gone from Greg’s hand, he takes a deep breath. Shiny black curls shift as Sherlock’s head turns to look through the papers, trembling fingers going still as they press against the photographs. Greg just waits. 

“Cauterized. Why was it cauterized?” Sherlock mutters, looking up as Greg does, both of them realizing that he’s asking the empty chair. His brow comes together, like he’s been wounded. 

Greg expects to have the file tossed to the floor or pushed against his chest until they’re both out of the apartment. Instead, Sherlock looks back down, raising his arm to find it steady. When the detective holds out a hand, Greg finds himself placing his phone in it without prompt, watching Sherlock dial.

There’s a voice through the speaker, distinguishable in the quiet apartment. Greg isn’t entirely surprised.

“Molly. I need to see a body.”

“Why’s he looking round like that?”

“Anderson.”

“I mean, it’s strange. He did all the work alone before the doctor came along, right?" They see Sherlock glance up, across the body, like he still expects someone to be staring back at him. "It's like he's still waiting for him to comment or make an obvious observation. I mean, it’s been nine months - plenty of time to adjust and re-wire the memory.”

“If your heart was cut out, you’d have a hard time forgetting it too.” Anderson shuts up after that, Greg watching their detective circle the body and wishing Sherlock would talk a bit more as well.

Sherlock’s ready when Eurus shows up, his sister pulling off the disguise and sitting in the chair that used to be reserved for writing blogs about a man that doesn’t exist. No one has sat there for a while.

“You’ll be in trouble for this.”

“Is it sad? Losing John?” That’s the first time someone has said his name around Sherlock since the funeral. It’s always just Him, or the doctor. 

Sherlock plays the piece created for Him for her, opening his eyes at the end to see Eurus’ head tilted, staring at the wall. She’s weeping, but her expression is less sadness and more understanding. “Oh.” He nods, playing it again as they wait for Mycroft to arrive.

Harry is shocked to see him at the door, something he can understand without using his deductive capabilities.

“Sorry. Taking care of a toddler doesn’t leave much time for cleaning.” Sherlock can tell that they spend a lot of time with Rosie, enough that they really don’t have plenty of time to do anything else. Overcompensating, he supposes, for being all she has left. “Clara’s gone out to the shops, but you’re welcome to stay until she gets back.” She turns away, calling out for her voice to reach further into the house. “Where are you, little monster?” Rosie laughs from a nearby closet, poking her head out and shrieking as Harry scoops her back into the hall. “Easy, easy. We have a guest.” The girl looks up and up, so small compared to Sherlock. He crouches.

“Hello.”

“Do you remember who this is, Rosie?”

“Yeah, he’s Sherlock. He wears a funny hat.” 

“That’s right,” Harry exclaims - a little too impressed, in Sherlock’s opinion. Everyone knows that he wears a funny hat. “He came to say hi.”

“Hi,” Rosie says, eyes darting away as she looks around at the toy mess. “If you- Do you want to play with us?” Sherlock nods, watching her walk around, bringing things back to him and waiting for him to respond. He says ‘good’ and ‘yes’, listening attentively as she starts to get used to him again. 

At one point, she hands him a hard, plastic sphere, one that’s made to never open after it’s been sealed. There’s a flash of gold, two rings inside that are overlapping at the bottom. Sherlock closes his hand around the case, squeezing tight before he lowers it to the ground with Rosie’s other possessions. It rolls a little on the carpet, coming to a stop by his knee. Harry pretends she doesn’t notice.

At the door, Harry presses a hand against the inside of his elbow and Sherlock stops. “It would mean a lot to him, that you came.”

“You’re doing well,” Sherlock replies, his lips pressed together in a semi-smile. “Don’t doubt yourself so much, Ms. Watson. She seems…happy.”

“Thank you, but I can tell you’re changing the subject. I mean it, Sherlock - you’re welcome anytime. And for God’s sake, call me Harry.” Rosie interrupts, telling him goodbye and offering a hug that he once again crouches down to accept. She waves, going back to the toys as Harry holds the door open for him.

Sherlock heads up to 221B, passing the first flight and moving to John’s room. He digs out the cigarette pack he stashed there, tearing open the plastic film with more force than necessary. 

It’s lit and he takes a deep drag, his other fist closing around nothing. The sphere isn’t there anymore but the weight of it is. Tobacco smoke fills the room as he looks around for something to tap off the burnt end. There’s something glass in the top drawer, and he lifts it out to find that he’s holding a familiar ashtray. Buckingham Palace. 

Sherlock puts the vice back in its hiding spot and goes downstairs to set the tray down on a nearby table, stubbing his used cigarette in the sink. He doesn’t need it right now. Mycroft gives him an exasperated look when he stops by and sees the stolen item on display, and the memory makes Sherlock smile a little.

On a sunny afternoon a few weeks later, Mycroft finds Sherlock kneeling on the ground and slouched over John’s armchair, forehead resting on his intertwined hands. The visual is accompanied by a broken sound that reminds Mycroft of two things: rooftops and crack dens. Since they are in no way near the top of a building, he leans down to his brother, already fuming.

“Hand it over.” The shoulders twitch, weak breaths grinding to a halt. “Sherlock, give me the damn list.”

“There isn’t one,” he hears, the thick voice almost laughing. Sherlock sits up enough to look at him, amusement fading as he sees how pale Mycroft has become.

“You swore to me-”

“Look again.”

It’s one of their little games. Mycroft takes in the eyes that are damp but not bloodshot, skin flushed but not marked. All his muscles seem to be in working order. No list.

Sherlock’s hand pats the fabric of the seat, looking away once Mycroft has deduced his sobriety. “Most people would get rid of it,” he says, not bothering to clear his throat or his face of tears.

“Yes. I certainly would, but when has my opinion ever factored into your decision-making process?” He accepts tea as Mrs. Hudson arrives from downstairs and hands him a fresh cup. Both of them are surprised as Mycroft takes the weight off his feet, turning to lean back against the side of the sturdy chair. Sherlock’s voice is quiet and glued together.

“Even in my mind palace, he’s getting further away.”

“And that may be a good thing. For now.” There’s a slight creak as Sherlock rests his head on relaxed arms. When Mycroft peers around the corner of the chair’s cushion, he sees that swollen eyes have closed again, Sherlock’s jaw clenched with troubling force. Grief is a process.

“From that, I know that you’re not only aware of the affair but organized the whole charade because her secret lover is _your_ secret lover, a woman that you intend to run away with at the first opportunity.” Sherlock leans away, watching the suspect glare in revealed honesty.

“Piss off.” 

Donovan lifts the man from his seat and moves him out the door, prepared to find evidence based on the deductions. 

_What do people normally say?_

“That was fantastic!” Sherlock opens his eyes to find Greg at the door. “I was watching on the other side. Hell, we’ll probably get a full confession from him now. Thanks again, mate.” The detective inspector walks away, leaving Sherlock alone with his brilliance. For a moment, he wishes no one would compliment him at all.

Sherlock is talking with Greg and Harry about the recent deaths in the neighborhood - Harry encouraging him to continue while Greg is trying to stop him.

“She has to live here, Sherlock. Don’t give her nightmares.”

“I can handle it, I swear. You said he had his what hacked off?” The detective grins, lifting a glass to his lips before he continues the story. Clara returns from daycare with Rosie and she runs straight to Sherlock with a toothy smile.

“My own blood has turned on me,” Harry sighs, accepting the hug from her wife in condolence. Sherlock’s playdates with the toddler usually involve trivial and non-hazardous studying at the park, but anything’s better than being forced to bathe, eat, and sleep normally. Rosie and Sherlock agree on that.

Greg gets called back into work and he leaves with an excessive huff, letting them know that he’ll see them next weekend for Rosie’s birthday party. Sherlock waits until they’ve put the girl to bed to take his leave, accepting the light hug that Clara offers while Harry just waves with their empty glasses and whispers her goodbye.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock takes off his coat and moves to the window, turning to lift his violin. He starts to play, no longer needing the sheet music to keep his thoughts on track. If someone asked, Sherlock would say that he feels fine.

But not better.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg asks him to help with a case just as Mrs. Hudson is coming up the stairs to get him for their afternoon walk, and with a moment of pause, Sherlock decides to decline her invitation.

He’s never seen her smile brighter.

“Did you say she painted her nails?”

The husband frowns, looking up like he’s trying to remember. Rather than snap at him to hurry, Sherlock just waits, knowing how grief can muddle the mind. “Not usually, but she did that morning.” He drags a hand over his face and takes a deep breath, still staring at the table with a distant vacancy. “I think we argued about the smell. Should have just opened a window, hm?”

“The smell,” Sherlock murmurs, answer on the tip of his tongue when a voice shouts his name from outside the interrogation room, disrupting his thought process. It sounds like Lestrade - and considering that Sherlock wasn’t supposed to actually talk to the prime suspect, he takes the distraction as a sign to leave the room. The usual commotion of the floor ceases to exist as the inspector calls for him again, eyes finding his back and whispers dropping into silence throughout the rows of desks and officers when he passes.

He follows the call to find Lestrade in his office, stepping through the open door with a lifted chin.

“A lecture about not talking to your suspects is a bit trite at this point, don’t you think? Oh, I forgot - of course you don’t.” He’s staring at Lestrade in the center of the room when he registers another figure and his eyes double-take at the ducked head, cataloging long, graying-blond hair. It’s pushed back messily, and he sees steady hands holding the ends of an orange blanket around the man’s own shoulders.

Sherlock drops to his knees, coat hem bumping into the shoes of the slumped figure as it pools around Sherlock’s bent legs. His hands don’t shake as they find the man’s face, untrimmed facial hair hiding the jaw that Sherlock is cradling. He lifts, gently.

The face blinks with heavy eyelids, a familiar exhausted expression finding him and drifting into a smile.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, feeling the weak nod before blue eyes close and stay shut. The man’s weight is caught as his torso falls forward, and Sherlock’s hands move to his neck and back, supporting him as he turns to look at Lestrade. “Ambulance?”

“Already called them,” he rasps. “Donovan said he just walked in here and sat down - hasn’t said a word.”

Sherlock can feel the steady breathing of unconscious sleep against his throat, hands twitching to clutch a bit tighter as he hears the paramedics arrive, reality asserting itself again. It takes Lestrade’s hand around Sherlock’s bicep to get him out of the way, watching them check the doctor’s vitals and set up the gurney, finding that his state is more likely due to fatigue and other conditions rather than a life-threatening emergency. Sherlock hears it all pass through his ears but nothing sticks. He follows them in a daze, his eyes following John’s face whether it’s blocked by a person’s back as they work or visible between neon vests.

When the ambulance goes, Lestrade puts Sherlock in a cab, paying for it as he pulls out his phone. 

“The smell of her nail polish,” Sherlock says, head popping out from within the backseat. He’s speaking from a haze of connected thoughts, his brain solving the murder while his primary thoughts were occupied. “It was lingering in the co-worker’s cubicle when her body was discovered. Perhaps her back was turned as she was touching up the corners and some was spilt on the carpet.”

“I’ll check on it,” Greg says, closing the door as the driver makes to pull away. Once both vehicles are gone, the detective inspector makes a call.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

The ride is spent solving the Case of the Dead Doctor and with a bit of imagination, Sherlock can see how someone might be able to organize the blood test and a body double that remotely resembles John. It would take more work than Sherlock’s death, requiring a deeper preparation that could withstand Mycroft’s scrutiny.

When the older Holmes finally appears, he’s quick to get to the point, once again missing the fallacy of reliance on his absolute power as he did with Euros.

“Any responsible parties come to mind?”

“The British government,” Sherlock says, turning to his brother. Mycroft stares back in confused disbelief.

“I am the British government. You truly believe I’d go that far over petty family squabbles?”

“No, but they’re the only people in the world that could manage to keep the truth from us. Do figure out who it was, Mycroft. You shouldn’t be too harsh though, they’re probably higher ranking than you.” 

His brother fumes, phone already out as he storms back through the door. Sherlock knows he deduced the reason they went after John in the first place. They wanted Sherlock out of commission. Dead, if he had been inclined to cope in the usual way. They probably didn’t expect to keep John this long or have Sherlock start to recover. They got sloppy, so John was able to make his own way out.

He doesn’t worry about that now.

Sherlock can hear John coming up the stairs, just as he saw him on the street outside only moments ago. It’s John’s first day home from the hospital and he’s already begun to wander around London. The detective waits, continuing the song on his violin.

Shoes snap to a stop in the open door of 221B. “Hello.” 

Sherlock moves to sit down in his chair, instrument cradled in his lap. Much to his delight, John does the same, settling in as Sherlock just stares at him, hiding the smile he can feel twitching at the corners of his mouth. The doctor’s head tilts a little and he pats the arm of the chair in an awkward stall. “How are you?”

“Good,” Sherlock says, watching John fidget some more. “I’ll start.” The movement stops, out of surprise or worry, he doesn’t know. “I fear an apology is not enough in this case, but you should know that I’m sorry. My behavior is the sole reason they abducted you and kept you like a prisoner. They wouldn’t have hurt you if it weren’t for me. Because of this-”

“I know, Sherlock, they told me,” he sighs. “Trying to break me, I suspect.” He stares with the same eyes as always, but it hasn’t been always for a long time, and Sherlock has to turn away from the scrutiny. “Why do you think that’ll scare me away now when I’ve gone through far worse with you?”

“You missed almost two years of her life.” Rosie. John knows what he’s saying but he drives the point home. “You’ve lost a lot of firsts, and she’s truly – objectively - the best child on the face of the planet.”

“That’s not objective at all.”

“No, but it’s accurate,” Sherlock says with a smile. 

John looks a little amazed, and the detective knows that the expression is a combination of disbelief at Sherlock’s admittance of attachment, and disappointment - likely in himself for his involuntary absence. “I can’t take you from her or her from you because I already have once and I won’t let it happen again. The only way to ensure that is to let everyone assume you’re dead, and you can have a normal life with your sister and your daughter. Therefore, you cannot work with me any longer.”

“Sherlock, I don’t-”

“I wrote a piece while you were away. Would you like to hear it?” 

John looks close to arguing, then he just sighs, leaning back in the chair. “Yes, I would.”

The long B-flat draws itself out and then the tune begins. He plays it the way he wrote it, intended for John’s ears only. The only person it couldn’t reach, until now. When it reaches the end, Sherlock turns, watching John swallow hard, once again thrown off balance and rendered mute.

“I could not bear losing you twice, John Watson. I wouldn’t ask you to abandon your position if I wasn’t sure that it’s for the best.” He nods, having said his piece.

“Piss off.” Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together. “God, you really are an idiot. Glad to see some things haven’t changed.” John stands up, taking the violin from him and setting it back in the case, then pulling Sherlock into a hug. “Just bloody stupid.” There’s not enough time to return the embrace before John steps back, crossing his arms to look immovable. Sherlock just thinks he’s being stubborn. “I missed you as well, you know. Seems like we’re just going to have to look out for each other a bit better.”

“A bit,” the detective echoes, incredulous and unconvinced.

“Yes. I’m not Mycroft, you can’t just kick me out when you get in a sulk.”

“I don’t think-”

“Shut up. Come by for dinner tonight. Rosie’s been upset about you skipping her party.”

Sherlock is a little offended. “I was at Bart’s with you.”

“I mentioned that,” John says. “It’s not a good excuse to a five-year-old.” 

John is frowning. 

Donovan, Anderson, and Greg are all silent, watching them – watching Sherlock – work without a single protest. No one’s making jokes, no one’s whispering about the latest rumor they’ve started about him being a murderer. They’re all watching Sherlock, just waiting and following instructions. He’s gotten used to it, the silence that followed him after John’s supposed death. They walked on eggshells and in their silence realized that listening to Sherlock actually worked, so they began to do it all the time. John doesn’t know that but he’s catching up. Slowly.

“Sorry, what’s going on?” 

Three pairs of eyes turn to him, as though just noticing he’s there again. They’d forgotten about John.

“He likes it quiet,” Anderson says, narrowing his eyes as he thinks about what he’s said, pandering to the detective’s wishes without a second thought. Sherlock grins into his coat collar.

“It’s poison. Get Molly to check the blood for thallium. Rare, but likely. There’s no murderer but he works somewhere that should be checked for leakage problems during smelting. The other employees need to be evaluated as well,” he says, speaking as he watches John step up to the body and finally look it over. “Barely a two, George.”

The man rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s critique and blatant misnomer, and then a quiet voice is heard.

“God, I missed that.”

John gets the room’s attention once more while he’s busy staring at the victim’s hands, setting them down before pulling off his gloves. There’s a small smile lifting his cheeks as he looks up at Sherlock. “Mee’s lines – well done.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock pauses, fingers twitching against each other behind his back. “Lunch?”

“Angelo’s, I think,” John says, pushing to his feet. It’s not until their voices are muffled by getting into a cab outside that Donovan speaks, snapping her co-workers from their mutual daze.

“Ten quid says it takes them a month to figure it out.”

Anderson frowns. “John’s a bit dense when it comes to him. It’s at least three months.”

“I’d give it two – split the difference,” Greg bets, calling for clean-up of the flat and organizing contact to other employees at the factory.

In the end, it takes four and Ms. Hudson wins the pool.

It’s another run through London, chasing people that do their best to escape the famous detective duo. They arrive at Baker’s Street, still laughing from the rush of cornering the suspect and dodging Greg’s debriefing all at once. Sherlock trips over his own feet, catching himself on the top step but deciding to roll over and lie down instead of recover. 

This is – of course – the funniest possible development, and he ends up unable to move, splayed over the second flight leading to 221B without the slightest motivation to get up anytime soon. John collapses beside him, feeding off of Sherlock’s clumsy amusement. 

He takes his time looking around while he’s down here. The lack of dust along the baseboard tells Sherlock that Ms. Hudson has swept recently. There’s a bit of shoe polish on the edge of the step underneath his head, a sign that Mycroft has done something at work that requires long conversations filled with near-apologies. The door to the kitchen is shut, meaning that some of his things have probably been mysteriously tidied during their excursion. The way John’s looking at him says – no, that can’t be right.

It’s not until the kiss is over that Sherlock realizes how strange it must be for someone to lock up at the feeling of lips pressed against their own.   
“Oh,” John exhales, blinking as he leans away and scrambles to his feet. “Sorry, I don’t know-” He scratches the back of his head, looking a bit bashful. Sherlock is trying to remember which way is up. “Don’t know why I did…that.”

“Adrenaline,” Sherlock offers, staring at the baseboard and the steps underneath him and anything but John. “Cardio exercise can introduce endorphins to the system that may make one feel light and impulsive. Probably the root cause of our excessive laughter as well. Completely understandable under the circumstances, a whim that is no fault of your own.” He swallows to stop rambling. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Right. You can just chuck it out of the mind palace.”

Sherlock nods, then has to remind himself to stop nodding about five seconds later.

“Rosie,” John says, metaphorically lifting his get-out-of-jail-free card. “Harry could probably use a break.” She’s only had the child for three hours, but Sherlock decides that the observation is better kept to himself at the moment. The doctor pats his pockets like he has keys to remember, already backing down the stairs. “Well done. On the case.”

“As usual,” Sherlock replies, rising to his feet with surprising grace. It’s probably due to his lack of control at the moment, his body on autopilot as he opens the door to the flat and closes it behind him, John’s footsteps receding down the stairs.

Sherlock stares at nothing in the quiet space, a hand coming up to fuss with his bottom lip before he catches himself, letting the arm fall back to his side. There are experiments on hold, waiting for his return. He ends up turning on his heel instead, flopping down into the leather seat with his standard impetuous flair.

He’s been kissed by John Watson.

Sherlock thinks about that. Not entirely unique, given John’s history. But to the detective, it’s novel enough that he has to contribute significant brainpower to figuring out the next course of action. He said he would forget, but it seems that the door to his recent memory is locked – his own mind turned against him to preserve the feeling of warm lips on his own, the graze of fingertips almost tilting up his jaw when he failed to react. He can still smell John’s cologne, see the flush of his face so close and feel the ragged exhale of the doctor still catching his breath.

Sherlock wrestles with the thought and loses, the sound of a door slammed cutting him from his memory and back to the present. There are strong footsteps, moving fast back up the staircase. He’s already at the door by the time John’s cleared the turn, barely opening it in time for them to collide.

He’s practically liquid by the time John pulls back, warm and devastating hands buried in Sherlock’s hair. “Okay?” John tries.

“You’d have to be an idiot to ask a question like that.”

“Yeah, not a good time to insult me, Sherlock.”

Lestrade pulls the invitation out of his desk, sliding it into a pocket and glancing around to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Donovan pokes her head in the doorway as he circles the desk.

"We've got a call from out of the city, a task force that wants to work in our jurisdiction - with any help we can offer,” she adds.

"Give them whatever permission or people they need. I can't offer more than that, I'm on my way out.”

"What? Why?"

"Late for a wedding," Greg says, slowing as she steps into the room with a wince, her presence the only thing between him and his chance to leave work early. "What?"

"The crime fits the profile of a killer they've been chasing for a while. He has a habit of disappearing within the day."

Greg notices that she isn't making eye contact and his stomach fills with dread. "No. No. You can't expect me to - John owns a gun!"

"They estimate we have two hours before he's left the city. After that…" Donovan holds out the case file, watching as Greg fights with himself. Oh, he knows that he's going to ask, but there must be a way to say it so that he survives to see the delayed ceremony. 

"Shit."

The phone rings once and he hears a careful breath, one that means John is fighting to remain calm.

"Absolutely not."

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Oh, that’s comforting. I’ll make sure to mention it to our closest friends and family when they ask why I’m at the altar alone.” There’s a sharp knock on the doctor’s side of the line.

“John, Harry says this is your last chance to back out. I imagine she thinks it’s funny to say a thing like that.” Greg hears Sherlock’s voice fade into observant curiosity, probably registering the fury on his partner’s face. “Lestrade. Theft or kidnapping?”

"He's got another killer on the loose."

The detective gets closer to the phone with interest, asking John directly for permission to run off and solve the case. "Can we?"

"Sherlock, do I need to remind you what today is?"

"Of course, of course. Forgive me.” John huffs, the exasperated sound interrupted by a distracted hum from the detective. “It would be fun though. Something to calm the nerves."

"The nerves," John says, getting a little hysterical. "You aren’t antsy, you just want to act clever again. God, it's like you think I'm stupid."

Greg hears a quiet inhale of hesitation, closing his eyes to wait for the argument.

"Don't you dare," John snaps, anticipating Sherlock's response. There's a long pause, and he has a feeling that they’re communicating with their eyes, both waiting for the other to cave. Apparently, the doctor is close to losing, Sherlock’s voice thrilled as he takes his advantage.

"Just for an hour."

"Sherlock, there is a room full of people waiting for us."

"No one that would mind if we pushed it back a bit. It’s not like we have friends that have anywhere better to be.”

“Yes, we do. Family as well – your parents and Mycroft in the front row.”

“You’re trying to convince me to stay using Mycroft? Oh, you’re desperate.”

John groans, knowing that he’s beaten. He takes a few deep breaths before speaking.

“An hour.” There’s a delighted whoop and the sound of rustling fabric, likely the detective changing jackets. “Sherlock, do you hear me? One hour. One.”

“Join me?”

“Yes, obviously. I don’t want you to get shot on today of all days.” John’s disgruntled sounds are muffled by his attempt to juggle the phone and grab his jacket off the stand, following Sherlock to the door. “Maybe Rosie can stall.”

“I’ll tell Harry to have her do the ballet recital routine, people loved that.”

“Right.” John calls for a taxi, then brings the phone back to his ear. “Where are we off to then?

“Baker Street first,” Sherlock says. “I need more than my emergency kit if this is serial.”

John smiles, animated by the detective’s delight at giving chase. His pulse thrums with anticipation and he pretends not to notice when Sherlock’s fingers graze his wrist to check for a heartbeat. They slide over his open hand and lace with his own, settling on his knee as the car begins to move.

“Baker Street it is.”


End file.
